Chapter V. By Paul S. Reinsch. Copyright, 1911, by the

author.

... The zeal of the older teachers in trying to catch up with the foreign-trained men is at times almost pathetic. In most towns a "teachers' discussion class" has been organized. These classes were established by the initiative of the teachers themselves, in order that they might acquire the knowledge necessary for elementary instruction in the new branches. With great eagerness these men, varying in age from thirty-five to fifty-five years, will follow the instruction given by some youngster in the early twenties who has been fortunate enough to have had a course in Japan or the West. While the necessary superficiality of such a system must be deplored, the mere fact of this instruction being so eagerly sought by the teachers is the best proof that the old order, recognizing its inevitable fate, has abandoned the hope of regaining its former supremacy and is hurrying to adapt itself to the new conditions.

This enthusiasm also finds expression in great individual sacrifices, and even in martyrdom. Private gifts are made in large numbers, even without the solicitation of officials or the hope of rewards. Within the last few years, it has frequently happened that some person desirous of founding a school, and lacking the means to do so, has in truly Oriental fashion appealed to his or her townsmen by committing suicide, after writing out a touching request for aid in the new cause. A Tartar lady at Hankow who had founded a school for girls was unable to secure sufficient money for carrying on the work of the institution. In order to secure her object, she determined to commit suicide. In her farewell letter, she stated that she felt the need of the school so much that she would sacrifice her own life and thus impress the need upon those who were able to give money. Her act had the result desired, as after her death money came flowing in from many sources. In most cases, fortunately, the appeals for assistance are successful without going to such extremes. Thus, the wife of a district magistrate in Honan, having decided to establish a school for girls, wrote a circular setting forth that a girl, if uneducated, brings six kinds of injury to herself and three kinds to her children. The subtlety of her arguments fascinated the city folk, and sufficient funds for her purpose were soon provided.

The introduction of female education, which militates against the most deep-seated prejudices of the Chinese race, has called for greater personal sacrifices than any other part of educational reform. Some powerful patrons have indeed arisen. H. E. Tuan Fang urged the importance of this reform upon the Empress herself, with the result that, before her death, the great lady established a school for female education in the capital. Educated women are making a strong plea for the education of their sisters. Doctor King Ya-mei, herself educated in the West, points out that those who lament the superficial nature of the present reforms forget that "half the nation, whose special function it is to put into practice the ideas governing the world in which she lives, has not yet been touched; that the strong impressions of childhood are the lasting ones, and that man is but an embodiment of the ideas of the mother." But in the case of female education, it is not primarily the provision of funds that causes difficulties. The desire of women to share in the advantages of education is of itself looked upon by the majority of the Chinese as scandalous and not at all to be encouraged. Many heartrending tragedies have been brought about by insoluble conflicts of duty toward the old and the new. A short time ago, in an interior village in Kiang Su, a woman, ambitious to become educated, killed herself after bad treatment from her husband's relatives. Her farewell letter was everywhere copied by the Chinese press. It has become a national document, and almost a charter of the new movement. In it occur the following sentences: "I am about to die today because my husband's parents, having found great fault with me for having unbound my feet, and declaring that I have been diffusing such an evil influence as to have injured the reputations of my ancestors, have determined to put me to death. Maintaining that they will be severely censured by their relatives, once I enter a school and receive instruction, they have been trying hard to deprive me of life, in order, as they say, to stop beforehand all the troubles that I may cause. At first they intended to starve me, but now they compel me to commit suicide by taking poison. I do not fear death at all, but how can I part from my children who are so young? Indeed, there should be no sympathy for me, but the mere thought of the destruction of my ideals and of my young children, who will without doubt be compelled to live in the old way, makes my heart almost break."

The blood of such martyrs is beginning to make its impression upon the Chinese people, and is turning them to favor more liberal popular customs. A nation in which a spirit of such ruthless self-sacrifice is still so common may bring forth things that will astonish the world. It has been said that "China contains materials for a revolution, if she should start one, to which the horrors of the French revolution would be a mere squib;" but if turned into different channels, this spirit of self-sacrifice may, as it did in the case of Japan, bring about a quick regeneration of national life and national prestige, through the establishment of new institutions, that correspond to the currents of life thus striving to assert themselves.

GEORGE C. COMSTOCK

Professor George C. Comstock was born in Madison in 1855, and after an education obtained at various colleges and universities, including the institutions of Ann Arbor and Madison, and after considerable and varied experience in engineering and astronomical work, he became professor of astronomy in our own University in 1887, and Director of Washburn Observatory two years later. Since 1906 he has been Director of the Graduate School. He is the member of many learned societies, and has been highly honored in numerous ways by institutions of learning. The stories that are told, and truly told, of his mathematical prowess, such as memorizing tables of logarithms, have excited wonder in the heart of many a student at Madison. His lectures, even on the most abstruse subjects, are notably clear. His illustrations are timely, and his English is of the very purest. He is a representative of the regular classical education that is now comparatively rarely elected by university undergraduates.

ASTROLOGY IN LIFE AND LITERATURE

... The modern philosopher and historian alike deride and marvel at astrology as the most persistent disease with which the minds of men have ever been afflicted but from which they are now happily freed by the advance of science. I must confess my inability to share this view as to the patent folly of the art. The careful student of astrology cannot fail to be impressed with the logical coherence of its doctrines and their necessary relation to the fundamental postulates from which they spring. While these postulates can no longer be maintained they seem in no way inappropriate as stages in the development of human knowledge and their wide spread acceptance is sufficient evidence of their seeming reasonableness to nascent society. Indeed it is only the upper strata of European civilization that has now outgrown the beliefs above considered. Asia still teems with them, from Seoul to Bagdad, and even in the heart of Europe astrological calendars are current and find enormous circulation among the lower classes. The practicing astrologer who seeks business through advertising in the daily press is with us in America, and to judge by the persistence of his advertisements they bring response. I find upon the shelves of the principal scientific library of Chicago a manual of applied astrology whose dirty and dog's eared leaves, together with recent date upon its title page, are additional testimony that American cultivation of the occult is not limited to Boston. Even nearer home we all know people who will plant or sow, or cut their hair only at the right phase of the moon or who have an abiding faith that the planetary weather predictions of Mr. Hicks are sound, in theory at least. I venture to assert that within range of the reader's acquaintance there is a considerable number of persons who firmly believe that in case of premature birth a seven months baby has a better chance of life than one of eight months--an ancient doctrine, for which excellent reasons were adduced by the Greek astrologers but which seems to find little support in current medical theory.

But assuredly our best memorial of the part astrology has played in human affairs lies not in such paltry superstitions but in its incorporation into the great literatures of Europe. Casual illustrations of this fossilized relationship have been given in this essay, but far more impressive than these instances are those cases in which astrologic doctrine permeates and dominates the whole structure of a great work. Chaucer's treatise on the Astrolabe was avowedly written as an exposition of the astrologic art, and in Dante's Divine Comedy the whole moral structure of the Paradiso, with its successive heavens allotted to beatitudes of varying degrees, finds its key in the astrology that Dante knew and followed. The sequence of these heavens accords with that of the spheres allotted by astrologic doctrine to the several planets, arranged in the order of their increasing distance from the earth, the order of their altitude as Dante would have said. The lowest heaven, that of the moon, is allotted by the poet to virgins because forsooth they best typify those qualities of cold and moist with which astrologic doctrine endows the moon. They who have fought with fire and sword in defence of the Church militant are placed in a higher heaven than are those saints and theologians whose service has been intellectual in its nature; an impropriety in our eyes and doubtless little congenial to Dante's mode of thought. But astrologically it must be so, for Mars, who typified the warrior, is higher, i. e., more distant from the earth, than is the sun whose light and warmth are alike the symbol and the source of intellect and spirituality. But ancient and modern ideas are equally satisfied when the poet placed God and the Redeemer in the empyrean, the region of the fixed stars, alike the most exalted and by reason of its distance, the purest part of the universe.

Although far from extinct, the old faith in the influence of the heavens is waning and it is hard to believe that any mutations of human thought can ever restore it to a status comparable with that it enjoyed in classical and mediaeval times. As a factor in the conduct of life among enlightened people its power is gone, but the marks of its old time influence are dyed in the social fabric, imprinted alike upon language and literature and so long as that literature abides, astrology cannot sink below the horizon of man's intellectual interests.

JAMES FRANCIS AUGUSTINE PYRE

Professor Pyre is another teacher whom Wisconsin can claim as wholly her own. He was born in 1871 in Rock County, and graduated at our University in 1892. While teaching English in his Alma Mater, he continued his graduate study, and was given his Ph. D. in 1897. He continued to serve his University, though for a brief space of time pursuing his study elsewhere, and became associate professor in 1909, which position he now holds.

No former student of the University reading this volume will be content with this sketch of Mr. Pyre without reference to his undergraduate football days, and to the nickname "Sunny," which will cling to him as long as he lives. Furthermore, no one who has sat in his classes and been inspired by his reading and his interpretation, and felt the optimism of his philosophy will need to have it explained to him how Mr. Pyre acquired his nickname.

The outstanding feature of his literary criticism, whether in the form of magazine article, or lecture, or informal talk, is clarity. In his class you could always understand what he was getting at. The reader of this brief selection from "Byron in Our Day," will sense that quality readily. The sentences are crisp and well formed. Their structure is not involved. The plan and organization are evident. At the same time there is dignity and distinction in every paragraph.

BYRON IN OUR DAY

By J. F. A. Pyre. From the Atlantic Monthly, Vol. XCIX, p. 547.

And with Byron passion was not merely a gift; it was a doctrine. In one of his letters to Miss Milbanke, there is an observation which comes very near to expressing the central principle of his existence. "The great object of life is sensation--to feel that we exist--even though in pain." To him, one of the chief curses of society was its ennui, the futility of its conventional pursuits, which all recognize, but most endure. He was for fanning the coal of life into a blaze. The vitality of his emotions demanded this. Hence, when friendship stagnated, when love lapsed into the inevitable mediocrity and torpor, he fretted or fled. In ordinary terms, he was fundamentally and abnormally impatient of being bored.

A being thus constituted, and cherishing so dangerous a doctrine, naturally found no peace in this life, but was goaded on from pleasure to pleasure, or from one violence to another. Passionate friendships, savage quarrels, gaming, carousing, travel and adventure, hard reading, hard riding, flirtations, and intrigues of varying intensity and duration, playing the social and literary lion, parliament, marriage, occupied but did not satisfy him. Avid of sensation, avid of power, he threw himself impetuously into his pursuits, lavished his life with the reckless waste of a cataract, and seemed as inexhaustible. He was too clear-sighted not to perceive the triviality of many of his occupations, and though too willful to change his ways, or employ his ample will power in self-restraint, he was not sordid enough to be happy so. Hence, he became a malcontent. Love soothed him, nature appeased him for a time; and in the presence of either, he soared into realms of serene delight and contemplation. But "he could not keep his spirit at that height;" say, perhaps, he was not a dreamer; his passion called for outlet in action, in enterprise; and he became--a writer!

EDWARD ALSWORTH ROSS

Edward Alsworth Ross is nationally one of the best-known men here represented. He was born at Virden, Illinois, in 1866; was graduated from Coe College, Iowa, in 1886; and then continued his education in Berlin and Johns Hopkins. He has been professor of economy, sociology, and kindred subjects at many universities, including Indiana University, Cornell, Leland Stanford, Junior, the University of Nebraska, and, since 1906, the University of Wisconsin. He is the author of many books and magazine articles, among the most noteworthy of the former, perhaps, being "Sin and Society," "Social Psychology," "Latter Day Sinners and Saints," and "The Changing Chinese."

The selection here chosen is from the last named book. The style is like the man, forceful, trenchant, and abounding in life. Mr. Ross's tall, rugged, muscular figure and forceful gestures are familiar to the lovers of lectures in Wisconsin, and all who have been fortunate enough to hear him, whether in regular classes at the University, or in extension or other lecture work, will recall his striking appearance as they read the clear, clean-cut statements in this selection.

THE CONFLICT OF ORIENTAL AND WESTERN CULTURES IN CHINA

From "THE CHANGING CHINESE." Chapter I. Copyright, 1911, by the Century Co.

China is the European Middle Ages made visible. All the cities are walled and the walls and gates have been kept in repair with an eye to their effectiveness. The mandarin has his headquarters only in a walled fortress-city and to its shelter he retires when a sudden tempest of rebellion vexes the peace of his district.

The streets of the cities are narrow, crooked, poorly-paved, filthy, and malodorous. In North China they admit the circulation of the heavy springless carts by which alone passengers are carried; but, wherever rice is cultivated, the mule is eliminated and the streets are adapted only to the circulation of wheel-barrows and pedestrians. There is little or no assertion of the public interest in the highway, and hence private interests close in upon the street and well-nigh block it. The shopkeeper builds his counter in front of his lot line; the stalls line the streets with their crates and baskets; the artisans overflow into it with their workbenches, and the final result is that the traffic filters painfully through a six-foot passage which would yet be more encroached on but for the fact that the officials insist on there being room left for their sedan chairs to pass each other.

The straightened streets are always crowded and give the traveler the impression of a high density and an enormous population. But the buildings are chiefly one story in height, and, with the exception of Peking, Chinese cities cover no very great area. For literary effect their population has been recklessly exaggerated, and, in the absence of reliable statistics, every traveler has felt at liberty to adopt the highest guess.

Until recently there was no force in the cities to maintain public order. Now, khaki-clad policemen, club in hand, patrol the streets, but their efficiency in time of tumult is by no means vindicated. A slouching, bare-foot, mild-faced _gendarme_ such as you see in Canton is by no means an awe-inspiring embodiment of the majesty of the law.

There is no common supply of water. When a city lies by a river the raw river water is borne about to the house by regular water-carriers, and the livelong day the river-stairs are wet from the drip of buckets. When the water is too thick it is partially clarified by stirring it with a perforated joint of bamboo containing some piece of alum.

There is no public lighting, and after nightfall the streets are dark, forbidding, and little frequented. Until kerosene began to penetrate the Empire the common source of light was a candle in a paper lantern or cotton wick lighted in an open cup of peanut oil. Owing to the lack of a good illuminant the bulk of the people retire with the fowls and rise with the sun. By making the evening of some account for reading or for family intercourse, kerosene has been a great boon to domestic life.

Fuel is scarce and is sold in neat bundles of kindling size. Down the West River ply innumerable boats corded high with firewood floating down to Canton and Hong Kong. Higher and higher the tree destruction extends, and farther and farther does the axman work his way from the waterways. Chaff and straw, twigs and leaves and litter are burned in the big brick bedsteads that warm the sleepers on winter nights, and under the big, shallow copper vessels set in the low brick or mud stoves. Fuel is economized and household economy simplified among the poor by the custom of relying largely on the food cooked and vended in the street. The portable restaurant is in high favor, for our prejudice against food cooked outside the home is a luxury the common people cannot afford to indulge in.

Proper chimneys are wanting and wherever cooking goes on the walls are black with the smoke that is left to escape as it will. Chinese interiors are apt to be dark for, in the absence of window glass, the only means of letting in light without weather is by pasting paper on lattice. The floors are dirt, brick, or tile, the roof tile or thatch. To the passer-by private ease and luxury are little in evidence. If a man has house and grounds of beauty, a high wall hides them from the gaze of the public. Open lawns and gardens are never seen, and there is no greenery accessible to the public unless it be the grove of an occasional temple.

In the houses of the wealthy, although there is much beauty to be seen, the standard of neatness is not ours. Cobwebs, dust, or incipient dilapidation do not excite the servant or mortify the proprietor. While a mansion may contain priceless porcelains and display embroideries and furniture that would be pronounced beautiful the world over, in general, the interiors wrought by the Chinese artisan do not compare in finish with those of his Western _confrere_....

No memory of China is more haunting than that of the everlasting blue cotton garments. The common people wear coarse, deep-blue "nankeen." The gala dress is a cotton gown of a delicate bird's-egg blue or a silk jacket of rich hue. In cold weather the poor wear quilted cotton, while the well-to-do keep themselves warm with fur-lined garments of silk. A general adoption of Western dress would bring on an economic crisis, for the Chinese are not ready to rear sheep on a great scale and it will be long before they can supply themselves with wool. The Chinese jacket is fortunate in opening at the side instead of at the front. When the winter winds of Peking gnaw at you with Siberian teeth, you realize how stupid is our Western way of cutting a notch in front right down through overcoat, coat and vest, apparently in order that the cold may do its worst to the tender throat and chest. On seeing the sensible Chinaman bring his coat squarely across his front and fasten it on his shoulder, you feel like an exposed totem-worshipper.

Wherever stone is to be had, along or spanning the main roads are to be seen the memorial arches known as _pailows_ erected by imperial permission to commemorate some deed or life of extraordinary merit. It is significant that when they proclaim achievement, it is that of the scholar, not of the warrior. They enclose a central gateway, flanked by two, and sometimes by four, smaller gateways, and conform closely to a few standard types, all of real beauty. As a well-built _pailow_ lasts for centuries, and as the erection of such a memorial is one of the first forms of outlay that occur to a philanthropic Chinaman, they accumulate, and sometimes the road near cities is lined with those structures until one wearies of so much repetition of the same thing, however beautiful.

GRANT SHOWERMAN

Professor Showerman is another author-teacher whom Wisconsin may claim as her own. He was born at Brookfield in 1870, was graduated from the University in 1896, and took his doctorate in 1900. He had the advantage of two years' study at Rome, where he was Fellow of the Archaeological Institute of America in the American School of Classical Studies. Since returning, he has been Professor of Latin Literature at his Alma Mater. He is member of many learned societies, and is the author of "With the Professor" and "The Indian Stream Republic and Luther Parker," besides many articles which are familiar to readers of the Atlantic Monthly and other leading periodicals.

His style will be noted at once by the careful reader as being different from that of most other prose writers whose works we quote here. It is more leisurely. He brings to the common things about us in Nature the kindly, alert intelligence of one who has seen many things in many lands, but who has the memory to re-create truthfully the days of youth.

A LAD'S RECOLLECTIONS OF HIS BOYHOOD HAUNTS AND EXPERIENCES IN THE EARLIER DAYS

"IN OCTOBER." From the Sewanee Review.

... On a late October Saturday morning, after a week in school at the village, you take your gun and a favorite play, whistle to already eager Billy, and follow the path to the Brush. You traverse its quiet length by the winding road that is always mysterious and full of charm, however often you tread it, you cross the stubbled barley-field that borders Lovers' Lane, and cross the lane itself and enter the Woods. You feel the friendly book in your pocket, and pat the friendly dog at your side, restfully conscious that you will spend neither profitless nor companionless hours. To be sure, you have in the back of your mind a thought or two about fox squirrels, or even red squirrels, and of a stew-pie--the savor of it is in your sensitive nostrils; but these thoughts are only vague. Your eyes are not greedily watchful--only moderately so; you have already begun to outgrow the barbarous boyhood delight of mere killing. Good will reigns in your breast.

You advance cautiously, the breech-loader resting in the bend of your left arm, every step causing pleasant murmurs among the autumn leaves. When you pause, the sound of your heart-beats is audible. The genial golden tone of Indian Summer pervades the air.

When you have penetrated to the heart of the Woods, you sit down on a familiar log, the gun caressingly across your knees, and drink in the fine wine of woodland enjoyment! Ah, the silence of the Woods! How deep and how full of mystery! And how deeper whenever some note of life emphasizes the stillness--the knocking of a woodpecker, the cry of a sapsucker, the scream of a jay, the caw of a crow aloft on some decayed topmost branch in the distance!

A distant barking note makes you start. There is a fox squirrel over yonder somewhere, beyond the ruins of the old arch. You strain your attention toward the sound. Billy sits bolt upright, with round eyes, questioning ears, and suspended breath.

But just as you are thinking of getting up, a nut drops with a thump on the log beside you and bounds lightly into the leaves at your feet. You know what that means! You look up instantly and catch just a glimpse of a sweeping foxy tail as it vanishes along a big branch and around the thick stem of a tree. He goes up forty or fifty feet, and then, far out on the big oak branch, lies close to the bark, out of sight.

Billy whines uneasily; he shivers with excitement. You say: "Sit still, Billy!"

There is only the least bit of the foxy tail visible. You tread softly to one side and another, slowly circle the tree, and all the while the owner of the tail subtly shifts his position so that you always just fail to get a shot.

Finally, you resort to stratagem; you pick up a nut and throw it with all your might to the other side of the tree. He hears it fall, and, suddenly suspicious, shifts to your side of the branch. But you are not quick enough; by the time you have raised the gun, he has become satisfied that you are the greater danger of the two, and has shifted back to safety.

And now you resort to more elaborate stratagem. You say: "Sit down, Billy!" and Billy obeys, keeping his eye on you, and dropping his ears from time to time, as he catches your glance, in token of good-will. You circle the big tree again, and as you go the tail shifts constantly.

Finally, when you are opposite Billy, you raise the gun with careful calculation. You call out quietly but sharply to your ally: "Speak, Billy, quick!"

Billy is tense with excitement at sight of the raised gun. He speaks out sharply, at the same time giving a couple of little leaps. The squirrel shifts again to your side, suddenly.

And now comes your opportunity! As he sits there a moment, his attention divided between you and the new alarm, the breech-loader belches its charge. A brownish-red body with waving tail comes headlong to the ground with a crash among the leaves, which rustle and crackle for a moment or two at your feet as you watch the blind kicks of the death struggle. You pick him up, with no very great eagerness, and go on your way--regretfully, for you are enjoying the life of the Woods, and are enough of a philosopher and sentimentalist to wonder what, after all, is your superior right to the enjoyment, and whether the contribution to the sum total of happiness in the universe through you is enough to compensate it for the loss through the squirrel.

You ask Billy about it and get no help. He simply says that whatever you think best is bound to be all right, and leads the way toward the old arch.

WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD

William Ellery Leonard was born in New Jersey in 1876. He has been a professor of English in the University of Wisconsin only since 1909, so he is not, as yet, so closely connected with the state in the thought of the alumni of the University as are most of the men whose works have just been discussed and illustrated. But if what he has produced may fairly be taken as an earnest of his future work, his name will be one which all lovers of our University will be proud to associate with that institution. One needs read scarcely more than a paragraph at almost any point in his published works to realize that Mr. Leonard is a man of keen and kindly interest in all things that he hears and sees, and that he has traveled and studied and lived widely and wisely. He has published several volumes, both of poems and prose,--notable among them being "Sonnets and Poems," "The Poet of Galilee," "Aesop and Hyssop," "The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems," and "Glory of the Morning." The selections given are taken from the last two volumes mentioned.

One acquainted with modern English poetry may sense a marked likeness between Mr. Leonard's poems and those of Swinburne, though the former says he is not conscious of any such resemblance. There is a warmth of passion, a fluid quality in the rhythm, markedly like those elements in the great English poet. The selection from "Glory of the Morning" here given begins at that point in the play where Half Moon, the Chevalier, the white trapper, comes back to his Indian wife to bid her farewell and to take their two children with him to his home in France. The reader will feel, even in this brief extract, the sweep toward a climax of emotion, and will be impelled to read the whole play at his first opportunity.

(One of the most interesting features of the editorial work of this volume has been the adjustment of the choice of selections respectively of the editors and authors. The editors' choice of the poems from Mr. Leonard's volume, "The Vaunt of Man," was "Love Afar"; the author, on the other hand, tells us that he thought so little of this poem that he even considered omitting it from the volume. His preference is "A Dedication." What does the reader say?)

GLORY OF THE MORNING

Copyright, 1912, by the author.

The Chevalier: I will take care of the children. They are both young. They can learn.

Glory of the Morning: They can learn?

The Chevalier: Oak Leaf is already more than half a white girl; and Red Wing is half white in blood, if not in manners--_ca ira_.

Glory of the Morning (Beginning to realize): No, no. They are mine!

The Chevalier (Reaching out his arms to take them): No.

Glory of the Morning: They are mine! They are mine!

The Chevalier: The Great King will give them presents.

Glory of the Morning: No, no!

The Chevalier: He will lay his hands on their heads.

Glory of the Morning: He shall not, he shall not!

The Chevalier: I have said that I will tell him you were their mother.

Glory of the Morning: I am their mother--I am their mother.

The Chevalier: And he will praise Glory of the Morning.

Glory of the Morning: They are mine, they are mine!

The Chevalier: I have come to take them back with me over the Big Sea Water.

Glory of the Morning (The buckskin shirt falls from her hands as she spreads her arms and steps between him and her children): No, no, no! They are not yours! They are mine! The long pains were mine! Their food at the breast was mine! Year after year while you were away so long, long, long, I clothed them, I watched them, I taught them to speak the tongue of my people. All that they are is mine, mine, mine!

The Chevalier (Drawing Oak Leaf to him and holding up her bare arm): Is that an Indian's skin? Where did that color come from? I'm giving you the white man's law.

Glory of the Morning (Struggling with the Chevalier): I do not know the white man's law. And I do not know how their skin borrowed the white man's color. But I know that their little bodies came out of my own body--my own body. They must be mine, they shall be mine, they are mine! (The Chevalier throws her aside so that she falls.)

The Chevalier: Glory of the Morning, the Great Spirit said long before you were born that a man has a right to his own children. The Great Spirit made woman so that she should bring him children. Black Wolf, is it not so?

Black Wolf: It is so.

The Chevalier (To Glory of the Morning, standing apart): Black Wolf is the wise man of your people.

Black Wolf: And knows the Great Spirit better than the white men.

The Chevalier: Indeed, I think so.

Black Wolf: And the Great Spirit made the man so that he should stay with the squaw who brought him the children,--except when off hunting meat for the wigwam or on the warpath for the tribe.

Glory of the Morning (With some spirit and dignity): The white man Half Moon has said that he believes Black Wolf.

The Chevalier: The white man has not come to argue with the Red Skin, but to take the white man's children.

Black Wolf (In his role of practical wisdom): The Half Moon will listen to Black Wolf.

The Chevalier (With conciliation): If the Black Wolf speaks wisely....

Black Wolf: Neither Oak Leaf nor Red Wing is a mere papoose to be snatched from the mother's back.

The Chevalier: The Half Moon shares Black Wolf's pride in the Half Moon's children.

Black Wolf (Pointing to the discarded cradle-board): The mother long since loosened the thongs that bound them to the cradle-board, propped against the wigwam.

The Chevalier: And when she unbound the thongs of the cradle-board they learned to run toward their father.

Black Wolf: But invisible thongs may now bind them round, which even the Half Moon might not break, without rending the flesh from their bones and preparing sorrows and cares for his head.

The Chevalier: Let us have done, Black Wolf.

Black Wolf: Thongs which none could break, unless Oak Leaf and Red Wing themselves should first unbind them. (To the children.) Will Oak Leaf, will Red Wing unbind the mystic thongs of clan and home? Let the children decide.

The Chevalier: Black Wolf is wise. My children are babes no longer. They can think and speak.

Black Wolf: Let them speak....

Glory of the Morning: Yes. Let the children decide.

Black Wolf: Oak Leaf, do you want to leave Black Wolf and Glory of the Morning to go with Half Moon over the Big Sea Water?

Oak Leaf (Looking up at her mother): O _do_ I, mother?

Glory of the Morning: I cannot tell. I love you, Oak Leaf.

Oak Leaf (Withdrawing toward her father): Mother, make father Half Moon take you with us too.

Glory of the Morning: The Half Moon has told you that he no longer needs Glory of the Morning.

The Chevalier (Taking Oak Leaf's hand caressingly): Oak Leaf, you are too beautiful to wither and wrinkle here digging and grinding and stitching, though the handsomest brave of the Winnebago bought you for his squaw. Beyond the Big Sea Water you won't have to dig and grind and stitch. And sometime a noble brave of my nation will come in a blue suit with gold braid to the chateau and say: "I love Oak Leaf; will you give Oak Leaf to me?"

Oak Leaf (Gladly): And you'll give me to him, father! ... (Oak Leaf leans against her father, with a half frightened glance at Glory of the Morning.)

The Chevalier: You see, Glory of the Morning.

Glory of the Morning (With restraint): I will say good-bye to Oak Leaf.

Black Wolf: Red Wing, are you going with your sister and with Half Moon over the Big Sea Water?

Red Wing: Sister, _are_ you really going?--You are always making believe.

Oak Leaf: O, father,--tell him.

The Chevalier: She is going, Red Wing.

Red Wing: There is nothing for me beyond the Big Sea Water.

The Chevalier: Over there your father is a famous chief, and you might wear a sword and fight beside the Great King.

Red Wing: I shall not fight beside the Great King; and I shall not wear the white man's sword.

The Chevalier (Takes his arm, coaxingly): Little chief, why not? Why not, my son?

Glory of the Morning (Coldly and firmly): Because he is _my_ son.

Red Wing (Standing off; to the Chevalier with boyish pride): Because I am a Winnebago.

LOVE AFAR

From "THE VAUNT OF MAN AND OTHER POEMS," p. 75. Copyright, 1912, by B. W. Huebsch.

I dare not look, O Love, on thy dear grace, On thine immortal eyes, nor hear thy song, For O too sore I need thee and too long, Too weak as yet to meet thee face to face. Thy light would blind--for dark my dwelling place-- Thy voice would wake old thoughts of right and wrong, And hopes which sleep, once beautiful and strong, That would unman me with a dread disgrace:

Therefore, O Love, be as the evening star, With amber light of land and sea between, A high and gentle influence from afar, Persuading from the common and the mean, Still as the moon when full tides cross the bar In the wide splendor of a night serene.

THE IMAGE OF DELIGHT

O how came I that loved stars, moon, and flame, An unimaginable wind and sea, All inner shrines and temples of the free, Legends and hopes and golden books of fame; I that upon the mountain carved my name With cliffs and clouds and eagles over me, O how came I to stoop to loving thee-- I that had never stooped before to shame?

O 'twas not Thee! Too eager of a white, Far beauty and a voice to answer mine, Myself I built an image of delight, Which all one purple day I deemed divine-- And when it vanished in the fiery night, I lost not thee, nor any shape of thine.

A DEDICATION

(For a privately printed collection of verse.)

Ye gave me life for life to crave: Desires for mighty suns, or high, or low, For moons mysterious over cliffs of snow, For the wild foam upon the midsea wave; Swift joy in freeman, swift contempt for slave; Thought which would bind and name the stars and know; Passion that chastened in mine overthrow; And speech, to justify my life, ye gave.

Life of my life, this late return of song I give to you before the close of day; Life of your life! which everlasting wrong Shall have no power to baffle or betray, O father, mother!--for ye watched so long, Ye loved so long, and I was far away.

THOMAS HERBERT DICKINSON

Thomas Herbert Dickinson was born in Virginia in 1877, and after a wide and thorough scholastic preparation was made associate professor of English in the University of Wisconsin in 1909. Mr. Dickinson is known to thousands of the citizens of Wisconsin as a friend of the drama. He believes that the drama is one of the most legitimate and natural means for the expression of the sentiments, tendencies, activities, and ideals of any people. No doubt he has done much to raise the standard of dramatic judgment and criticism among the citizens of Wisconsin. However, he would not want it said that he is trying primarily "to raise people's dramatic ideals." His mission rather has been to encourage communities to express themselves legitimately and wholesomely through their own dramatic productions. He has won much distinction both as an editor and an author of plays, but perhaps his greatest service to Wisconsin in this direction is his work in editing the little volume, "Wisconsin Plays," containing one play each by Zona Gale, Professor Leonard, and himself.

The following selection is taken from his play, "In Hospital," in the volume just mentioned. It depicts just such a scene as takes place in our hospitals every day of the year. The wife is about to undergo a serious operation. The husband is trying to keep cheerful in anticipation of the ordeal. That is the sort of scene which, Mr. Dickinson wants us to realize, can be wholesomely and pleasantly represented by the drama.

IN HOSPITAL

Copyright, 1909, by the author.

A Wife. A Husband. A Surgeon. An Interne. A Nurse.

Wife: Tell me about the children.

Husband: Oh, they are getting on--so, so.

Wife: I know they will.

Husband: But you should see them! (Turning toward her. She nods without speaking.) They're trying hard to be good, but it's a stiff pull for the little rascals. Well, I don't blame them. Freddie put me in quite a hole the other day. "What's the use of being good when mother's away?" he asked. (She smiles.) For the life of me I couldn't think of an answer. What would you say?

Wife: I'd be as bad off as you were.

Husband: But Robert wasn't. He had an answer. "So mother will be happy when she comes back," he said. Wasn't that good?

Wife: Just like Robert.

Husband: I don't know what we should have done without Robert. He serves at the table. He answers the door and the telephone. He ties the baby's bib. How he thinks of everything I don't know. I--I'm so helpless. Why didn't you ever teach me to take charge of the house?

Wife: Fancy teaching you anything you didn't want to learn.

Husband (After a moment's deep silence): All the kiddies send you their love.

Wife: Even Freddie?

Husband: Oh, Freddie, to be sure. Guess you know about what he's doing. Upstairs and downstairs. Outdoors and in.

Wife: I hope he won't get hurt.

Husband: Trust him for that. But how do you keep him in aprons? They're all dirty already. Yesterday he got all scratched up trying to put Kitty to bed and make him say his prayers. He has fallen in the flour bin, put the telephone out of commission, pulled the table-cloth and dishes off the table. There isn't anything he hasn't done. Freddie will welcome you back with a dish-pan band, when you come home.

Wife (Closing her eyes): Yes--

Husband (Pretending not to notice, though it is clear that he does): Did I tell you about night before last?

Wife: No.

Husband: Well, that night he slept over at Cousin, Ruthie's house. All his nightgowns were dirty so Aunt Ella made him wear one of Ruthie's. But she had the hardest time making him wear it. The next morning he said to me, "I'm glad I ain't a woman, ain't you, Paw?" "Yes, I suppose so," said I. "Why?" "Oh, they're all right, I guess," he said, "but before I'll wear another of those women's nightgowns, I'll go to bed raw."

Wife (Smiling): Little man. Does he ask for me much?

Husband: Just this morning he said, "Pop, you tell mamma to come back quick or I'll elope with the ice man."... Well, they're good children. I don't think any one ever had better. And that's something, isn't it?

Wife: That's everything. They make me very happy.... You know, dear, I have been doing a good deal of thinking since I came here. I've seen things very clearly, clearer than even at home. I think I've been able to tell why I've been so happy. You find out what's really worth while in a time like this, don't you? (Husband nods.)

Wife: I won't say anything about you. You know. But the children. (She smiles.) Yes, I know why I've been happy.

WILLIAM J. NEIDIG

Iowa and Illinois may rightly contest the claim of Wisconsin for a proprietary interest in Mr. William Jonathan Neidig. He was born in the first-named state, and is at present living in Chicago, where he is engaged in business, though he still finds time for an occasional story or poem. He was a member of the faculty in the English Department of the University of Wisconsin from 1905 to 1911, and it was during approximately this period of his life that his literary activity was greatest. "The First Wardens," which was nominated for the Nobel prize in idealistic literature, was published in 1905, and several critical works that attracted wide attention came from his pen during his Wisconsin residence.

The one poem which we quote here shows an evenness of power and an assurance of touch that mark real poetry. It also would be generally recognized, the editors feel, as having been written by a University man.

THE BUOY-BELL

From "THE FIRST WARDENS." Copyright, 1905, The Macmillan Co.

Bell! Bell! Bell that rideth the breakers' crest, Bell of the shallows, tell, O tell: The swell and fall of foam on the sand, Storm in the face from sea to land, Roar of gray tempest: these, O bell, What say these of the West? Tell! O tell!

Bell! Bell! Crowding the night with cries, O tell: What of the moorings in the silt? What of the blooms that drift and wilt? What of the sea-chest wrenched wide? Is it safe harbor by thy side? Bell that rideth the breakers' crest, What say these of the West? Tell! O tell!

Bell! Bell! It is a dirge the bell is tolling, A dirge for the silent dead,-- With the cold sea rolling, rolling, rolling, Rolling each restless head. Bell that rideth the breakers' crest, O, when will they lie all quietly, Untossed by the slow sea-swell: Nor breakers brave on the great sea-beach, Nor ceaseless crash of the cresting sea, Nor booming headland's sullen knell, Nor bell, for elegy? When is the last tide out of the West, And the last restless dream for each? Tell! O tell!

Toll! toll! toll! Toll for the ebbing tide: Toll for the lives that outward ride: Toll for the deep-delved cold sea-seat: Night in the West at every beat! Toll! toll!

BRAYLEY--WINSLOW--JONES.

In this group of young writers, the editors present what seems to them to be the best work done by students or young graduates of the University while unquestionably under her influence. They wish there were work by more such writers to present. Possibly there is more that has not yet been brought to their attention.

Berton Brayley has written extensively for newspapers. He has facility in rhyme and the knack of "hitting off" a verse that well fits an occasion. One has the feeling, however, that there is a power and seriousness to the man that have not yet found adequate expression. Perhaps in the next ten years the qualities of ease, leisureliness, and reflection will assert themselves more in his poetry. But from the first there has been a wholesome tone about his work.

Horatio Winslow, son of Chief Justice J. B. Winslow, showed marked ability while an undergraduate. He was a collaborator in the writing of a play which was presented by University students. As with Mr. Brayley, we would say of him that his best work has not yet been published. There is power and strength and grace latent in him that have not yet found expression, but that are unmistakably foretold in the things he has already produced.

Howard Mumford Jones is the youngest of these three men, and comes from the spirit-haunted region of the Mississippi. While his poems have not yet attained absolute surety of touch and evenness of movement, yet of those presented in this group they probably evince the most grace and music, together with the highest and warmest poetic feeling. "When Shall We Together" has real sweep and atmosphere and glow. It is the production of a poet who loved the subject he was writing about.

SOMETIMES

Sometimes I long for a lazy isle, Ten thousand miles from home, Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smile And the milk-white breakers foam-- A coral island, bravely set In the midst of the Southern sea, Away from the hurry and noise and fret Forever surrounding me!

For I tire of labor and care and fight, And I weary of plan and scheme, And ever and ever my thoughts take flight To the island of my dream; And I fancy drowsing the whole day long In a hammock that gently swings-- Away from the clamorous, toiling throng, Away from the swirl of things!

And yet I know, in a little while, When the first glad hours were spent, I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isle And cease to be content! I'd hear the call of the world's great game-- And battle with gold and men-- And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame, Back to the game again!

--Berton Braley. Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916.

THE PIONEERS

Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.)

We're the men that always march a bit before Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same; We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door-- Play and lose and pay the candle for the game. There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go; There's no painted post to point the right-of-way, But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselves To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.

It's infrequent that we're popular at home, (Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,) And we scoff at living a la metronome, And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap. True--we cannot hold a job to save our lives; We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore-- 'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest And we rope and tie the world and call for more.

Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words-- But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned; Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds-- And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand. So they jail us and we lecture to the guards; They beat us--we make sermons of their whips; They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said. That shall burn upon a million living lips.

Are we fighters?......By our fellows we are fanged. Are we workers?......Paid with blows we never earned. Are we doctors?......Other doctors see us hanged. Are we teachers?......Brother teachers have us burned. But through all a Something somehow holds us fast 'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen; And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses by When we pass it on and die--and live again!

A LITTLE BOOK OF LOCAL VERSE

Author of "The Masque of Marsh and River." Copyright, 1915, by the Author. Pages 13-14.

When shall we together Tramp beneath the sky, Thrusting through the weather As swimmers strive together, You and I?

How we ranged the valleys, Panted up the road, Sang in sudden sallies Of mirth that woke the valleys Where we strode!

Glad and free as birds are, Laughter in your eyes, Wild as poets' words are, You were as the birds are, Very wise.

Not for you the prison Of the stupid town; When the winds were risen, You went forth from prison, You went down,

Down along the river Dimpling in the rain, Where the poplars shiver By the dancing river, And again

Climbed the hills behind you When the rains were done; Only God could find you With the town behind you In the sun!

Don't you hear them calling, Blackbirds in the grain, Silver raindrops falling Where the larks are calling You in vain?

Comrade, when together Shall we tramp again In the summer weather, You and I together, Now as then?

JOSEPH P. WEBSTER.

No one who reads this book is unfamiliar with "The Sweet Bye and Bye." But how many of us, as we sang that song, realized that both its words and music were written by a Wisconsin man,--Joseph P. Webster?

He was born in New Hampshire in 1819, but he lived most of his life at Elkhorn, where he died in 1875. He was a member of many musical societies, and was the composer of many other songs, the best known of the latter being "Lorena."

SWEET BYE AND BYE

Composed by Joseph Philbrick Webster, February, 1868.

I.

There's a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar, For the Father waits over the way, To prepare us a dwelling place there.

Chorus.

In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore; In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

II.

We shall sing on that beautiful shore The melodious songs of the blest, And our spirits shall sorrow no more-- Not a sigh for the blessings of rest.

III.

To our bountiful Father above, We will offer the tribute of praise, For the glorious gifts of His love, And the blessings that hallow our days.

WRITERS OF LOCAL DISTINCTION

The greatest difficulty confronting the compilers of any anthology is involved in the necessary exclusion, through lack of space, or else, in some instances, through lack of unmistakable manifestation of literary merit, of some authors and selections that would no doubt be welcomed by many readers of the volume. In the present work it has been the main purpose to set forth in due prominence the works of those writers of our state who have displayed unmistakable literary merit, and who have, beyond doubt, possessed both a message and a marked facility in giving it to the world. We now come to those who, usually despite the rigorous exactions of hurried and anxious frontier lives, have sensed the essential elements of poetry or story in their workaday lives, and have had the courage and optimism necessary to write and publish.

To show just what courage it took and just what spirit impelled these writers, let us quote from the preface to

A COUNTRY GIRL'S FATE

BY C. F. SHERIFF.

... "When Ed. Coe, of Whitewater, Wisconsin, began some twelve years ago publishing Cold Spring items, signed by 'Greenhorn,' he published the first lines I ever wrote, at which time some spirit (or some unseen thing) seemed to be always whispering in my ear that I must write a book.

"Never could I drive from me these thoughts, and situated as I was, with plenty of farm work to do, no education at all, no knowledge of such business, no friends to help me, but lots to kick me down, I can tell you I was pretty well discouraged, and if I had not had lots of courage, the contents of this book would not have been written.

"This work is the only kind of work that I can get interested in, and should I pass to the mysterious beyond without gaining any name in this way, I would declare with my last breath that my life, as far as myself was concerned, had been a failure."

DEW DROPS

Something of the same impulse is found in this dedication of the volume "Dew Drops," by Leda Bond (Mrs. Feldsmith).

"This little book is fondly dedicated to Raymond and Leotta, my two beloved children, who, when the shades of sorrow closed around me, stretched forth their baby fingers, and parting the curtains of gloom, revealed once more the gladsome light of a happier day."

We feel that the names of some of these courageous and happy pioneers should be given in this volume, together with brief selections from some of their works. Some of the verses here given will show sure sense of rhyme and pleasing balance and reserve. Some have, it is true, little to commend them but the evident longing to express the song that was in the soul rather than on the lips. But who can say how much the more successful ones, who have won deserved fame and plaudits, owe to the more obscure who sought, with more meagre measure of success, to show that there is poetry and song and story in Wisconsin?

POEMS OF A DAY.

A Collection of Fugitive Poems Written Among the Cares and Labors of Daily Journalism. By A. M. THOMSON. (Then Editor of the Sentinel), Milwaukee, 1873.

DEATH OF GOVERNOR HARVEY

Bow down thy head, O Commonwealth, 'Tis fitting now for thee to weep; Thy hopes lie buried in the grave, In which our chieftain is asleep.

The flags at half mast sadly droop, The bells toll out a solemn wail, As on the southern breeze there comes, With lightning speed, the sick'ning tale!

O, dreadful night! O, fatal step! O, rushing river's angry tide! Was there no quick, omniscient arm To save a life so true and tried?

Breathe, lofty Pines, his requiem; Sing paeans in thy forest gloom; And ye, ye Prairies, that he loved, Bring Flora's gems to deck his tomb.

O, State, bereft of him you loved, O, Mother, from thy loving breast, Our friend and brother, statesman, chief, At noon, sinks calmly to his rest!

We cannot hide these scalding tears, But kiss in trust this chast'ning rod; Though reason sleeps, faith is not blind, But sees in all the hand of God.

BALLADS OF WAR AND PEACE.

By J. H. WHITNEY, Baraboo, Wisconsin.

THE MUSTER ROLLS

When treason, veiled in fair disguise, And clad in robes of state, Invoked the sword to cut the ties That made a nation great,

Wisconsin sounded the alarm, And beat the battle-drum: Men heard from office, mill and farm, And answered, "Lo! we come."

Down from the rugged northern pines, Up from the eastern coast; From riverside and southern mines, Comes forth the loyal host.

From Gainesville thru the wilderness They march with fearless tread, And leave behind, as on they press, An army of the dead.

* * *

Beneath the blue--above the green, Mid flowers of fairest hue, We honor now with reverent mien, The men who wore the blue.

The story of the rolls is told. The records, worn and gray, Like veterans, are growing old, And soon shall pass away.

But deeds of valor for a cause So just, shall ever shine, And loyalty to righteous laws Shall live, because divine.

IN THE LAND OF FANCY, AND OTHER POEMS.

By MRS. LIBBIE C. BAER. (Appleton, Wisconsin. Copyright, 1902, by the Author.)

IN THE LAND OF FANCY

Never a cloud to darken the blue, Never a flower to lose its hue, Never a friend to prove untrue In the beautiful land of fancy.

Never a joy to turn to pain, Never a hope to die or wane, Never a boon we may not gain In the beautiful land of fancy. Never a heart turns false or cold, Never a face grows gray or old, Never a love we may not hold In the beautiful land of fancy.

All of life that we crave or miss, (The world denies us half its bliss), Free, untrammelled, we have in this-- In the beautiful land of fancy.

A COLLECTION OF POEMS.

By J. R. HENDERSON, Riley, Wisconsin.

Copyright, 1896, by the Author.

We give here a selection of "Neighborhood Verse," such as may achieve much local fame and really may make life more worth living.

A NUPTIAL SALUTATION

Neighbors and friends, we have met today, At the home of Jimmie Clow, To see his daughter Mary give her hand away, And take the marriage vow.

To see Willie Goodwin get a wife, And start on the matrimonial sea. Long life, health and happiness to him and his, Is the wish of this whole company.

Now, Willie, lad, here's a pipe for you, It's a present from old Joe; And when you take your evening smoke You'll remember him, I know.

And, Mary, lass, here's a gift for you-- Ah, you'll need it yet; you'll see. Take it now, and hide it away From this laughing company.

SONGS AND SONNETS.

By MARY M. ADAMS.

Copyright, 1901, by the Author (wife of Charles Kendall Adams, then President of the University of Wisconsin).

WISCONSIN

Sound her praise! our noble State, All her strength to deeds translate, Prove her shield when danger's nigh, Read her banner in the sky, Tell of her in song and story, All her past with love illume, Show her present robed in glory, Promise of a larger bloom.

Morning maid! whose day began With the nobler life in man, Sun-crowned souls reveal thy fame, Sacred hopes thy laws proclaim. O Father! hear for her our prayer, Bid her voice Thine own decree, Let all her growth Thyself declare, Guard the light supplied by Thee!

MY BEST POEM.

You ask of mine the poem I love best, And promise it shall have the larger light; Alas, alas! far, far beyond the rest I love the poem that I mean to write!

THE RICHEST TIME OF LIFE

MYRA GOODWIN PLANTZ. 1856-1914.

From SONGS OF QUIET HOURS. Copyright, by Pres. Samuel Plantz and reprinted by permission of The Methodist Book Concern.

This poem was written to her mother on her seventy-seventh birthday.

The spring is fair; it has its flowers, Its happy time of sun and showers; Then summer cometh as a queen, With roses on her robe of green; But autumn brings the crimson leaves And wealth of golden, garnered sheaves, And grapes that purple on the vine, With spring and summer in their wine.

The morning comes with rosy light That dims the candles of the night, And wakes the nestling birds to song, And sends to toil the brave and strong. Mid-day and afternoon are spent In search of gold or heart-content; Then comes the sunset's glow and rest, And this of all the days is best.

The baby comes with Paradise Still shining in his smiling eyes, And childhood passes like a dream, As lilies float upon a stream. Then youth comes with its restless heat, And manhood, womanhood, replete With care and pleasure, joy and strife, Lead to the richest part of life.

And it has reached these, mother dear, The sunny, mellow time of year; Though with a climate of thine own, In constant sun thy soul has grown. Time counts not helpful, happy years-- He only numbers sighs and tears; So rich in blessings, strong in truth, Thou hast not age, but richer youth.

WAYSIDE FLOWERS.

By CARRIE CARLTON.

(Mrs. M. H. Chamberlain.)

A SPELL IS ON MY SPIRIT

A spell is on my spirit And I cannot, cannot write, All the teeming thoughts of glory That crowd my soul tonight. They come in quick succession, Like the phantoms in a dream; And they surge in shadowy billows, Like the mist upon a stream.

Oh! had I but the language, I would give these visions birth; I would shadow their glorious meaning, And their untold, hidden worth. They were raised by wild thanksgiving, For a blessed answered prayer; And their fleeting, changing beauty, Held my spirit breathless there.

I had pleaded, oh, how earnest For one precious, precious boon; For one gift to cheer this bosom, That was desolate so soon. Now I know my prayer is answered, And my soul would fain adore, Him whose promise is forever, And is faithful evermore.

UNDER THE PINES.

By ADA F. MOORE. Published by West and Co., Milwaukee, 1875.

LINES FOR THE TIMES

There's a certain class of people In this sublunary sphere-- (And if I'm not mistaken, You'll find them even here), Who think the rare old precept To the old Athenians given, And esteemed so full of wisdom That they deemed it came from Heaven,--

In this glorious age of progress Has become quite obsolete; So they choose another motto, For these latter times more meet. It is "know thyself" no longer-- So they say, and who can doubt them-- But "Mortal, know thy neighbors, And everything about them!"

To attain this worthy object, All other cares forego; To gain this glorious knowledge, You cannot stoop too low. Heed not the ancient croakers, Who ask, with solemn phiz-- "Is it anybody's business What another's business is?"

No! we'd join the glorious party, That to giant size has grown, To mind our neighbor's business, And "Know nothing" of our own, Hurrah! for the Rights of Meddlers! For the freedom of our day! For the glorious Age of Progress! And for Young America!

MEMORIES OF THE WISCONSIN AND OTHER POEMS.

By HARRY LATHROP. Published by Review Print, Flint, Mich., in 1903.

THE MAN WHO LAUGHS

He loves to make another laugh And laugh himself as well, Nor any one around one-half So good a joke can tell.

The less of pain a man can give, The more of joy he scatters; The more excuse for him to live-- Apart from weightier matters.

Then emulate the men who laugh, Good health and mirth are catching, The wine of joy is ours to quaff, Life's duties while despatching.

OVER THE DIVIDE.

And other Verses. By MARION MANVILLE. Copyright, 1887, by the Author.

PRELUDE

But one of a thousand voices, Oh, how can one voice be heard, When ninety and nine and nine hundred Are chanting the same old word?

But one of a thousand singers, What song can I sing, oh pray, That is not sung over and over, And over again today?

VISIONS OF A CITIZEN.

By PROFESSOR J. J. BLAISDELL, (1827-1896), Beloit College. Copyright, 1897. J. A. Blaisdell.

EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS (p. 10).

One cannot be a good citizen of Wisconsin without being a good citizen of America. One cannot be a good citizen of America without being a good citizen of the Commonwealth of all nations. One cannot be a good citizen of the world Commonwealth without being a good citizen of the Universal Kingdom of God's moral order. Wisconsin citizenship, magnificent lesson to be learned!

JOHN NAGLE'S PHILOSOPHY.

Complied by SYDNEY T. PRATT, Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1901, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, by Sydney T. Pratt.

AUTUMN

There is something in the approach of autumn, the border land of summer, that is depressing, just as if the shadow of death were brooding over the future. There are dark clouds in the sky which cut off the sunshine; there is a gloom in the heart which darkens hope and makes life "scarcely worth living." The wind has a mournful cadence, and the trees saw as if the motion were a sigh of sorrow. Everything seems to harmonize with the prevailing spirit of sadness, and animate nature moans forth a dirge. Dew drops seem like tears, and the evening breeze is a sigh. The moon itself seems to wear a garb of grief and floats among the clouds, a tear-stained Diana. It is a season for men to grow mad, for anguish to gnaw at the heart, and for melancholy to usurp the throne of reason. The retina only receives dark impressions, the tympanum transmits none but doleful sounds. One is feasted on dismal thoughts on every hand until it becomes a regular symposium of sorrow. Those imps, the Blues, that feed one on dejection, are in their heyday, implacable as a Nemesis, persistent as a Devil. They revel in gloom and drag one down to the Slough of Despond. Work is performed mechanically, and what in its nature is amusement, is now a bore. One "sucks melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs," and longs for night that he may seek forgetfulness in sleep--the twin-sister of Death. A miserable world this, when the year is falling "into the sear and yellow leaf;" and there is a lingering wish that the shadows which come from the West would bring that icy breath that gives forgetfulness and rest.

POEMS.

By WILFRID EARL CHASE, Madison. Copyright, 1913, by the Author.

FAITH

Maze of antinomies and miracles! Bewildered, purblind we are led along This rock-strewn, flower-decked, mystic, wondrous way. Whence came? What are we? Whither are we led? Wherefore journey we? Why such fickle path? And Nature's myriad answers, voiced in the storm's Wild tumult, fringed on the gentian's azure cup, Or limned on human brow, we would descry,-- And some we darkly guess, and some we almost know.

BOOK OF THE GREEN LAKE MANSE.

A SEQUEL TO THE RHYMED STORY OF WISCONSIN. By J. N. DAVIDSON.

MY NEIGHBOR'S CHICKENS

(The following verses express no grievance of my own. I could not ask for more considerate neighbors. But all gardeners are not so fortunate, and it is for their sake and at the suggestions of one of them that these lines were written.)

Sometimes I say "The Dickens! There are my neighbor's chickens!" My neighbor I like well But--let me grievance tell-- I do not like his chickens;-- Save when he bids me to a roast And plays the part of kindly host.

My garden is most dear to me From carrot bed to apple tree, And so my patience sickens When I behold the chickens In it and scratching merrily. Dark gloom grows darker, thickens, In looking at those chickens.

A certain scientific man Once called the hen "A feeble bird." It is, I'm sure, on no such plan My neighbor's hens are built; the word "Feeble" to them does not apply. I wish Professor would stand by And see those hens make mulching fly.

Or let him watch them as they eat My cauliflower choice and sweet, Or gorge themselves on berries fine; The way they always do with mine. They run on their destructive feet From stalk to stalk, from vine to vine, Or scratch as if they dug a mine.

And so, my neighbor, won't you please, My cares dispel, my troubles ease, By keeping all your hens at home? Soon, soon the very earth will freeze And then the fowls at large may roam. So I'll not need the pen of Dickens To tell my horror of your chickens!

TO MY NEIGHBORS AT HILL CREST

Shall I do dear Sam a wrong If I write no little song Telling how he pleases Grace, Brings the light to Tompie's face, Shares their play or runs a race, Merry all about the place?

No: I'd do the duck no wrong If I failed to make the song. He'll not care for verse or rhyme. But this pleasant summer-time I have seen my little neighbors, Happy in their kindly labors Making Sam and others glad, So I say, "God bless the lad; Bless the lassie"; and I know That the love to Sam they show Makes their own hearts richer, truer; Makes the sky seem brighter, bluer; Makes them to us all a joy (I mean duck, and girl, and boy).

So I'd surely do a wrong If I did not say in song To loved Tompie and Miss Grace (Merry all about the place) That their duck's important, quite, With his new-grown feathers white; But the more important thing Is their love; of this I sing!

IN THE LIMESTONE VALLEY.

PEN PICTURES OF EARLY DAYS IN WESTERN WISCONSIN. By S. W. BROWN. Copyright, 1900, La Crosse, Wisconsin.

FROM CHAPTER II, pp. 37-38.

Such was Neoshone, as the Indians who frequently camped there called it when the first white man stood on the bank of the river and watched the rushing waters flow swiftly by. They had borne the red man in his canoe, and around this very spot the Winnebago hunter had secured fine strings of ducks, and for generations had trapped for mink and gathered in abundance the fish that swarmed in every eddy and pool.

The hill at the north was crowned with a beautiful grove of young oak trees, and, standing on its slope, the early pioneer beheld before his eyes a magnificent panorama. In the distance the everlasting hills seemed to stand guard round and about it as did the walls of the Jewish capitol encircle its sacred precincts.

Valley, hillside, prairie, and plain, stretched away from the spectator's feet in varying lines and curves, while down the center rolled the grand old river. It seemed like a second Canaan, waiting for the coming of the chosen people, its soil ready to be waked by the share of the settler's plow, when crops would come forth as if touched by the magician's wand.

From

"ON GROWING OLD."

By NEAL BROWN.

Read before the Phantom Club, Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, April 15, 1913.

... Growing old has many stages. You can remember the time when, in reading your favorite author, you were disgusted to find that he had made his hero forty years old, and you wondered how he could be guilty of imputing romance to such an unconscionable age. By and by, even though you found forty years to be the old age of youth, you were solaced by the thought that it was the youth of old age, and still later you will wonder where youth ends and old age begins.

In many assemblages you once found yourself the youngest man, or among the youngest. But with swift-flying years, you finally found yourself equal in age to most of those in all assemblies; but the time comes when only younger men are crowding around you. And when you try to evade the thought that you are growing old, along comes some kindly friend with the greeting, "How young you are looking."

You grow to regard as babes, wild, young blades of forty or fifty. You may comfort yourself with the thought expressed by Holmes. He says that he could feel fairly immune from death as long as older men whom he knew, still remained, especially if they were of a much greater age than himself. They were farther out on the skirmish line, and must be taken first.

MY ALLEGIANCE.

By CORA KELLEY WHEELER, Marshfield, Wisconsin. Copyright, 1896, The Editor Publishing Company.

FROM "MY LADY ELEANOR," pp. 119-20.

I was wounded at Acre. My strong right arm will never strike another blow for the glory of the Cross. I started sadly out, in spite of our victory, for my western home.

I thought to look in Eleanor's face once more, and see if the years had brought any tender thoughts of me into her heart. If not, I should never trouble her with any claim of mine. I knew she passed her time in works of charity, and that the house of Savoy had never held the love and reverence of the people before as it held it today, under the rule of my Lady Eleanor.

We reached Savoy. In the old days I carried to the lady of my heart a reprieve from death; but to me she brought now a reprieve that took all the grief and sorrow out of my life, as she laid her sweet face on my breast and whispered, "I have loved you ever since the night you brought me home; why did you ever leave me?" With the love of the Duchess of Savoy began a new life; but to me she will ever be, as when I loved her first, "My Lady Eleanor."

OTHER WISCONSIN WRITERS AND THEIR WORKS.

ALBERTINE W. MOORE, Echoes from Mistland, Norway Music Album.

MARION V. DUDLEY, Poems.

ELLA A. GILES, Maiden Rachael, Out from the Shadows, Bachelor Ben, Flowers of the Spirit.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL, Percival's Poems.

CHARLES NOBLE GREGORY, Poems.

JULIA AND MEDORA CLARK, Driftwood.

CHARLOTTA PERRY, (pseud.) Carlotta Perry's Poems, 1888.

JOHN GOADBY GREGORY, A Beauty of Thebes and Other Verses.

FLORENCE C. REID, Jack's Afire, Survival of the Fittest.

KENT KENNAN, Sketches.

MYRON E. BAKER, Vacation Thoughts.

JOSEPH V. COLLINS, of Stevens Point, Sketches.

MYRA EMMONS, of Stevens Point, Short Stories.

JULIA M. TASCHER, of Stevens Point, Arbutus and Dandelions, a Novel.

ADA F. MOORE, (Mrs. John Phillips, of Stevens Point), Under the Pines.

MRS. E. M. TASCHER, (Mother of Julia M. Tascher), The Story of Stevens Point.

JOHN HICKS, of Oshkosh, lately Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States to Peru, The Man from Oshkosh.

JULIUS TAYLOR CLARK, formerly of Madison, The Ojibue Conquest.

GEORGE GRIMM, of Milwaukee, Pluck, a Story of a Little Immigrant Boy.

GENESSEE RICHARDSON, of Oconomowoc, My Castle In the Air.

CHESTER L. SAXBY, of Superior, A Captain of the King.

MISS L. J. DICKINSON, of Superior, John O'Dreams.

GEORGE STEELE, of Whitewater, Deidre.

JULIUS C. BIRGE, (the first white child born in Whitewater.) The Awakening of the Desert.

JOSEPH P. DYSART, Milwaukee, Grace Porter, a Jewel Lost and Found.

MARGARET ASHMUN, Poems and Short Stories.

WISCONSIN HUMORISTS

Among the many purposes authors have for producing literature is that of pure fun or humor. If the writer attempts to reform by laughing at his people, we designate his work as satire. With this type of literature we have nothing to do here, but much literature has been produced within the state that has for its purpose the laughing with the readers. It attempts to amuse through affording a pleasing surprise. The unexpected which engenders this surprise may be that of situation, of ignorance, or of the mingling of sense and nonsense in a perplexing manner.

This last means of engendering surprise and the resulting humor grew up quite largely among writers of the Middle West during and since the Civil War. It is often spoken of as American humor. It may be illustrated by a short selection from Edgar Wilson Nye's Comic History of the United States, which will show the point of mingling real historical facts with statements quite ridiculous in many instances. Let the reader attempt to determine which statements are historical sense and which are smart or even pure nonsense.

"On December 16, 1773, occurred the tea-party at Boston, which must have been a good deal livelier than those of today. The historian regrets that he was not there; he would have tried to be the life of the party.

"England had finally so arranged the price of tea that, including the tax, it was cheaper in America than in the old country. This exasperated the patriots, who claimed that they were confronted by a theory and not a condition. At Charleston this tea was stored in damp cellars, where it spoiled. New York and Philadelphia returned their ship, but the British would not allow any shenanagin, as George III. so tersely termed it, in Boston.

"Therefore a large party met in Faneuil Hall and decided that the tea should not be landed. A party made up as Indians and, going on board, threw the tea overboard. Boston Harbor, as far out as the Bug Light, even today, is said to be carpeted with tea-grounds."

Wisconsin writers have attempted this type of humor. Two of these whose lives have been more or less connected with the history of River Falls, are mentioned here. The first of these labored quite as earnestly to cultivate the serious side of literature as he did the humorous. As a result his little volume entitled "Lute Taylor's Chip Basket," is filled with even more of the quite serious of life's lessons expressed in poems and essays than of the ludicrous. He mingled both in his book as a real manifestation of his philosophy of life. This is the way he puts it: "Fun is cousin to Common Sense. They live pleasantly together, and none but fools try to divorce them."

Lute A. Taylor was born at Norfolk, New York, September 14, 1863. He came to River Falls, Wisconsin, in 1856, where he became editor of the River Falls Journal in June, 1857. He removed his paper to Prescott in 1861 and called it the Prescott Journal. In 1869 he became one of the publishers and editor-in-chief of the La Crosse Morning Leader. In addition to his newspaper work he held the appointive offices of assistant assessor of internal revenues, assessor of the sixth congressional district of Wisconsin, and surveyor of the port of entry at La Crosse. He died at the latter place November 11, 1875.

When Lute was eight years old his father died, and the boy was thrown upon his own resources quite largely from this early age. The resulting struggle limited his opportunities for school and academy somewhat, but it revealed to him the blessings of persistent effort and gave him a sympathy for the sufferings of mankind. His genial disposition and keen wit made him see the joyous in life, so that between trial and joy he may be said to have been a veritable "vibration between a smile and a tear."

Since so much of his effort in a literary way was serious, it is thought best to illustrate this as well as his humor. Two selections are chosen, both from the Chip Basket, which in its turn is a selection from his newspaper articles. He had not only the ability to write the extended article, but also the much more rare ability of boiling down into concentrated comparisons some of his richest observations. Out of twenty such quotations just these two are given as illustrations:

"There is a thread in our thought as there is a pulse in our heart; he who can hold the one knows how to think; and he who can move the other, knows how to feel."

"A man may be successful as a loafer, and invest less capital and brains than are required to succeed in any other line."

To illustrate a bit of his humor due to the mingling of nonsense and facts a few paragraphs from a letter to the St. Paul Pioneer concerning the city of Chicago are given.

LUTE A. TAYLOR.

CHICAGO

I like Chicago. Chicago is a large city. I have noticed there are always many people in a large city. A city doesn't do well without them. Some of your readers may not have been to Chicago. Shall I tell them about it?

There are many groceries here, where they sell tea, cod-fish, whiskey, flour, molasses, saleratus and such things, and other groceries where they sell cloth, women's clothes, and fancy 'fixin's' generally. Field, Leiter and Co. have one of the latter. It is in cube form--a block long, a block high, and a block thick. It is bigger than a barn, and tall as a light-house. There are more than forty clerks in it.

There are lots of ships here, and horse-cars, but the horses don't ride in them, though, and the water-works. I must tell you about the water-works. They are a big thing. Much water is used in Chicago. Fastidious people sometimes wash in it. Chicago has first-class water now, and plenty of it. She has built a tunnel two miles long, and tapped Lake Michigan that distance from the shore. The water runs down to the home station, and is then lifted up high by steam engines and distributed over the city. The hoisting of it is a good deal like work. I like to see these engines work. Any body would. Clean, polished, shining monsters, they seem to take a conscious pride in their performance, and the tireless movement of their mighty arms seems almost as resistless as the will of God. But they cost scrips, these piles of polished machinery and throbbing life do; and with that regard for economy which has always characterized me, I think I have discovered a plan by which this work can be done at nearly nominal expense. I only wonder that Chicago, with her accredited 'git' and 'gumption,' has not accepted my plan before. My plan is this: At the shore end of the tunnel build a large tank or reservoir, put two first-class whales in it, and let them spout the water up. Simple, isn't it? And feasible too, and cheap. You see the whales would furnish their own clothes and lodging, and all the oil they would need for lighting to work nights by, and the city would really be out nothing but their board. Whales have always been in the water elevating business, so this would be right in their line. They would work and think it was fun--just as a boy sometimes, but not most always, does--and there is no good reason why their sporting instinct should not be turned to practical.

I am confident of the final success of my plan, but the prejudices of people against innovations may retard its operation for some time yet.

Speaking of water makes me think that Chicago, like St. Paul, has a river, only not so much so. Rivers most always run by large cities, they seem to like to, some way. But this is a brigandish sort of river, black, foul, and murky, and in the dark night it steals sullenly through the city like a prowling fiend.

Two paragraphs will serve to illustrate Lute Taylor's ability to meditate upon the common-place and draw therefrom the wholesome lesson. We are choosing his comments upon a "nickname," where he says:

The man who has won a nickname and wears it gracefully, has the elements of popularity about him. The same instinct which leads a mother to apply diminutive phrases of endearment to her little ones is a universal instinct, one which we never outgrow, and which continually manifests itself in our form of addressing or speaking of those we love, trust or admire.

The man who is known in his neighborhood as "Uncle" is never a cold, crabbed or selfish character. He is sure to have a generous heart, and wear a cheerful smile--there is integrity in him which men trust, and warmth around him which little children love to gather, and the term is a title of honor--more to be desired than that of honorable.

"BILL" NYE.

Edgar Wilson Nye, known to his readers as "Bill Nye," was born in Shirley, Maine, August 25, 1850. He removed with his parents to Wisconsin in 1854. As a mere school boy, he loved to say those things which afforded amusement to his associates and his family. In an article in Collier's for April 10, 1915[3], his mother tells the following anecdote concerning him when a boy working on the Wisconsin farm:

The two boys, Edgar (Bill) and his brother Frank had been working in the field, but were separated on their return to the house at noon time. They met again at the pump, when the following conversation ensued:

"Edgar looked at Frank as if surprised, and inquired: 'Your name Nye?'

'Yes,' replied Frank, with perfect gravity in order to lead his brother on.

'That's funny; my name's Nye, too,' observed Edgar. 'Where were you born?'

'In Maine,' answered Frank.

'I was born in Maine myself,' said Edgar. 'I wouldn't doubt at all if we were some relation. Got any brothers?'

'Yes, I have two brothers.'

'Well, well, this is growing interesting. I've got two brothers myself. I'll bet if the thing were all traced out, there would be some family relationship found. Are your brothers older or younger than you?'

'I have one brother older and one younger,' replied Frank.

'Oh, well, then we can't be any relation after all,' declared Edgar with a look of disappointment; 'my brothers are both older.'"

While a young man he went to the then territory of Wyoming, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1876. He later returned to River Falls, Wisconsin, where he engaged in newspaper work. Some years later he traveled with James Whitcomb Riley and gave entertainments in which mirth was the essential feature. He later removed from Wisconsin and made his home in New York City. He died at Asheville, N. C., Feb. 22, 1896.

His writings appeared under the following titles:

Bill Nye and Boomerang, in 1881; Forty Liars, in 1883; Remarks, in 1886; Baled Hay and Fun, Wit and Humor, with J. W. Riley, in 1889; Comic History of the United States, in 1894; Comic History of England, in 1896.

To illustrate his humor due to the mingling of fact and nonsense, we reproduce here a portion of his chapter upon Franklin as published in his Comic History of the United States.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Reprinted through permission of J. B. Lippincott Co.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

It is considered advisable by the historian at this time to say a word regarding Dr. Franklin, our fellow-townsman, and a journalist who was the Charles A. Dana of his time. Franklin's memory will remain green when the names of millionaires of to-day are forgotten.

But let us proceed to more fully work out the life and labors of this remarkable man.

Benjamin Franklin, formerly of Boston, came very near being an only child. If seventeen children had not come to bless the home of Benjamin's parents, they would have been childless. Think of getting up in the morning and picking out your shoes and stockings from among seventeen pairs of them!

And yet Benjamin Franklin never murmured or repined. He decided to go to sea, and to avoid this he was apprenticed to his brother James, who was a printer.

His paper was called the New England Courant. It was edited jointly by James and Benjamin Franklin, and was started to supply a long-felt want.

Benjamin edited it a part of the time, and James a part of the time. The idea of having two editors was not for the purpose of giving volume to the editorial page, but it was necessary for one to run the paper while the other was in jail.

In those days you could not sass the king, and then, when the king came in the office the next day and stopped his paper and took out his ad, put it off on 'our informant' and go right along with the paper. You had to go to jail, while your subscribers wondered why their paper did not come, and the paste soured in the tin dippers in the sanctum, and the circus passed by on the other side.

How many of us today, fellow-journalists, would be willing to stay in jail while the lawn festival and the kangaroo came and went? Who of all our company would go to a prison-cell for the cause of freedom while a double-column ad of sixteen aggregated circuses, and eleven congresses of ferocious beasts, fierce and fragrant from their native lair, went by us?

At the age of seventeen Ben got disgusted with his brother, and went to Philadelphia and New York, where he got a chance to 'sub' for a few weeks and then got a regular job.

Franklin was a good printer and finally got to be a foreman. He made an excellent foreman. He knew just how to conduct himself as a foreman so that strangers would think he owned the paper.

In 1730, at the age of twenty-four, Franklin married, and established the Pennsylvania Gazette. He was then regarded as a great man, and almost every one took his paper.

Franklin grew to be a great journalist, and spelled hard words with great fluency. He never tried to be a humorist in any of his newspaper work, and everybody respected him.

Along about 1746 he began to study the habits and construction of lightning, and inserted a local in his paper in which he said that he would be obliged to any of his readers who might notice any new odd specimens of lightning, if they would send them to the Gazette office for examination.

Every time there was a thunderstorm Frank would tell the foreman to edit the paper, and, armed with a string and an old doorkey, he would go out on the hills and get enough lightning for a mess.

In 1753 Franklin was made postmaster of the colonies. He made a good Postmaster-General, and people say there were fewer mistakes in distributing their mail then than there have ever been since. If a man mailed a letter in those days, Ben Franklin saw that it went to where it was addressed.

Franklin frequently went over to England in those days, partly on business and partly to shock the king. He liked to go to the castle with his breeches tucked in his boots, figuratively speaking, and attract a great deal of attention. Franklin never put on any frills, but he was not afraid of crowned heads.

He did his best to prevent the Revolutionary War, but he couldn't do it. Patrick Henry had said that war was inevitable, and had given it permission to come, and it came.

He also went to Paris, and got acquainted with a few crowned heads there. They thought a good deal of him in Paris, and offered him a corner lot if he would build there and start a paper. They also offered him the county printing; but he said, no, he would have to go back to America or his wife might get uneasy about him. Franklin wrote 'Poor Richard's Almanac' in 1732 to 1757, and it was republished in England.

Dr. Franklin entered Philadelphia eating a loaf of bread and carrying a loaf under each arm, passing beneath the window of the girl whom he afterward gave his hand in marriage.

GEORGE W. PECK

One section of this book might be devoted wholly to the work of newspaper men in furthering the progress of literature in the state. Several names would deserve mention in such connection,--among them E. D. Coe, of Whitewater; Colonel Robert M. Crawford, of Mineral Point; John Nagle, of Manitowoc; Major Atkinson, of Eau Claire; Horace Rublee and A. M. Thomson, of the Milwaukee Sentinel; Bruce Pomeroy, of La Crosse; Amos P. Wilder, of the State Journal, Madison; E. P. Petherick, of Milwaukee; Colonel A. J. Watrous, of Milwaukee, and two former Governors of Wisconsin,--W. D. Hoard, of Fort Atkinson, and George W. Peck, of Milwaukee, besides Mr. Nye and Mr. Taylor, mentioned above.

Mr. Peck was born in New York in 1840, but he has lived in Wisconsin since 1843. He has been connected with newspapers at Whitewater, Jefferson, La Crosse, and Milwaukee. He founded the "Sun" at La Crosse in 1874, and later removed it to Milwaukee, where he called it "Peck's Sun." At one time he was unquestionably the best-known writer in Wisconsin, and the best-known Wisconsin writer throughout the country, which fame came to him through his "Peck's Bad Boy" sketches. He was also the author of "Peck's Compendium of Fun," "Peck's Sunshine," together with almost countless sketches which usually were in some way connected with the mischief-loving, mirth-provoking "Bad Boy." Neighbors of the Pecks in Whitewater tend, by their recollection of the former Governor, to confirm the suspicion that not all of "Peck's Bad Boy" was fiction, and that the author himself may have played a not inconsiderable part in the scenes therein depicted.

Mr. Peck's fellow-citizens in Milwaukee honored him with the mayoralty, and the citizens of the state made him Governor from 1891 to 1895. He is now, January, 1916, a familiar figure to Milwaukee citizens. He has a keen memory for his old friends, and citizens, both young and old, who can remind him of some of his old neighbors in Whitewater or Jefferson are always sure of a pleasant chat with him.

TROUBLE ABOUT READING A NEWSPAPER

From "PECK'S BOSS BOOK," p. 42. Copyright, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Co.

A man came into the "Sun" office on Tuesday with a black eye, a strip of court plaster across his cheek, one arm in a sling, and as he leaned on a crutch and wiped the perspiration away from around a lump on his forehead, with a red cotton handkerchief, he asked if the editor was in. We noticed that there was quite a healthy smell of stock-yards about the visitor, but thinking that in his crippled condition we could probably whip him, if worst came to worst, we admitted that we were in.

"Well, I want to stop my paper," said he, as he sat down on one edge of a chair, as though it might hurt. "Scratch my name right off. You are responsible for my condition."

Thinking the man might have been taking our advice to deaf men, to always walk on a railroad track if they could find one, we were preparing to scratch him off without any argument, believing that he was a man who knew when he had enough, when he spoke up as follows:

"The amount of it is this. I live out in Jefferson county, and I come in on the new Northwestern road, just to get recreation. I am a farmer, and keep cows. I recently read an article in your paper about a dairymen's convention, where one of the mottoes over the door was, 'Treat your cow as you would a lady,' and the article said it was contended by our best dairymen that a cow, treated in a polite, gentlemanly manner, as though she was a companion, would give twice as much milk. The plan seemed feasible to me. I had been a hard man with stock, and thought maybe that was one reason my cows always dried up when butter was forty cents a pound, and gave plenty of milk when butter was only worth fifteen cents a pound. I decided to adopt your plan, and treat a cow as I would a lady. I had a brindle cow that never had been very much mashed on me, and I decided to commence on her, and the next morning after I read your devilish paper, I put on my Sunday suit and a white plug hat that I bought the year Greeley ran for President, and went to the barn to milk. I noticed the old cow seemed to be bashful and frightened, but taking off my hat and bowing politely, I said, 'Madame, excuse the seeming impropriety of the request, but will you do me the favor to hoist?' At the same time I tapped her gently on the flank with my plug hat, and putting the tin pail on the floor under her, I sat down on the milking stool."

"Did she hoist?" said we, rather anxious to know how the advice of President Smith, of Sheboygan, the great dairyman, had worked.

"Did she hoist? Well, look at me, and see if you think she hoisted. Say, I tell you now in confidence, and I don't want it repeated, but that cow raised right up and kicked me with all four feet, switched me with her tail, and hooked me with both horns, all at once; and when I got up out of the bedding in the stall, and dug my hat out of the manger, and the milking-stool out from under me, and began to maul that cow, I forgot all about the proper treatment of horned cattle. Why, she fairly galloped over me, and I never want to read your old paper again."

We tried to explain to him that the advice did not apply to brindle cows at all, but he hobbled out, the maddest man that ever asked a cow to hoist in diplomatic language.

WILLIAM F. KIRK

William F. Kirk is no longer a resident of Milwaukee, he having been called to a larger sphere of work on New York papers. But for a period of some eight or ten years he endeared himself to the readers of the Milwaukee Sentinel by his daily column. In it he had many quips which reminded one of Eugene Field in his "Sharps and Flats." But perhaps the most popular type of his work appeared in his "Norsk Nightingale" sketches, of which one is here given.

A PSALM OF LIFE

From the "NORSK NIGHTINGALE, BEING THE LYRICS OF A 'LUMBER YACK'," by William F. Kirk. Copyright, 1905, by Small, Maynard & Co. (Inc.).

Tal me not, yu knocking fallers, Life ban only empty dream; Dar ban planty fun, ay tal yu, Ef yu try Yohn Yohnson's scheme. Yohn ban yust a section foreman, Vorking hard vay up on Soo; He ban yust so glad in morning As ven all his vork ban tru.

"Vork," says Yohn, "ban vat yu mak it, Ef yu tenk das vork ban hard, Yu skol having planty headaches,-- Yes, yu bet yure life, old pard; But ay alvays yerk my coat off, Grab my shovel and my pick, And dis yob ant seem lak hard von Ef ay du it purty qvick."

Yohn ban foreman over fallers. He ant have to vork, yu see; But, yu bet, he ant no loafer, And he yust digs in, by yee! "Listen, Olaf," he skol tal me, "Making living ant no trick, And the hardest yob ban easy Ef you only du it qvick!"

Let us den be op and yumping, Always glad to plow tru drift; Ven our vork ban done, den let us Give some oder faller lift. Den, ay bet yu, old Saint Peter, He skol tenk ve're purty slick; Ve can go tru gates, ay bet yu, Ef ve only du it qvick!

INDEX OF AUTHORS AND GROUPS.

Adams, Mary M. 275

Anderson, Rasmus B. 228

Baer, Libbie C. 273

Baker, Ray Stannard 85-99

Birge, E. A. 224

Blaisdell, J. A. 279

Bond, Leda 271

Brayley, Berton 265

Brown, Neal 284

Brown, S. W. 283

Carlton, Carrie 276

Centers of Literary Activity 172, 184, 219

Chamberlain, Mrs. 276

Chase, Wilfred E. 281

Coe, E. D. 270

Comstock, George C. 242

Davidson, J. N. 281

Thomas, Herbert Dickinson 260

Ferber, Edna 163

Flower, Elliott 202

Gale, Zona 114

Garland, Hamlin 13

Grayson, David 99

Griswold, Hattie T. 189

Henderson, J. R. 274

Hoard, W. D. 295

Humorists 287

Jones, Howard M. 265

Jones, Jenkin Lloyd 209

King, General Charles 40

Kirk, William F. 297

Lathrop, Harry 278

Leonard, William E. 254

Manville, Marion 279

Merrick, George B. 184

McNeil, Everett 213

Moore, Ada F. 277

Muir, John 64

Nagle, John 280

Neidig, William J. 263

Newspaper Men 294

Nye, Edgar W. (Bill) 291

Peck, George W. 294

Plantz, Myra G. 275

Pyre, J. F. A. 245

Reinsch, Paul S. 238

Rexford, Eben E. 128

Ross, Edward A. 246

Salisbury, Albert and Rollin 172

Sanford, Albert H. 193

Schurz, Carl 146

Sheriff, C. F. 270

Showerman, Grant 251

Stevens Point as a Center 184

Stewart, Charles D. 196

Taylor, Lute 288

Teeple, George L. 172

Thompson, A. M. 271

Thwaites, Reuben Gold 230

Turner, Frederick J. 234

University as a Center, The 184, 219

University Group, The 219

Van Hise, Charles R. 220

Webster, Joseph P. 269

Wheeler, Cora K. 285

Whitewater as a Center 172, 295

Whitney, J. H. 272

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler 72

Willsie, Honoré 150

Winslow, Horatio 265

Writers of Local Distinction 270

Writers not represented 286

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious typographical errors were repaired. Otherwise, period spellings, grammatical uses and hyphenation inconsistencies were retained.

Formatting varied throughout the original. This was standardized.

Author portraits have been relocated between their biographical introductions and the beginning of their writings.

Some poetry stanza breaks were inconsistent in the original (for example, "In the Land of Fancy"); retained.

Old style ellipses (* * *) have been converted to standard ellipses.

P. 84, "Which Are You?" replaced ending period with question mark.

P. 156, "clear in the light of the moon"; original reads "noon."

P. 221, "p. 11718"; verified elsewhere and retained. Some sources reference "p. 117-18."

P. 273, a shorter than normal thought break was in the original; retained.

P. 286, Under "Other Wisconsin Writers"; Both "Charlotta Perry" and "Carlotta Perry's" are present in the original; retained.

P. 291, "Bill" Nye; original had no footnote marker. The marker for footnote 3 was added by the transcriber.

P. 297, "Nightingale sketches, of which one is here given," originally was placed between "eight or ten years he en-" and "deared himself to the readers." The misplaced line has been repositioned correctly.

P. 299, index; "Thomas, Herbert Dickinson" was listed in the "D"s in the original; retained.